


Two Step

by jar



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-19
Updated: 2010-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:16:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jar/pseuds/jar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Salsa, stupidity & sexy scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Step

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/gifts).



"Bob!"

It's really fucking cold.

"Bob, will you just let me in!"

It's really fucking cold and One Two is doing a sad parody of basic salsa steps, attempting to stop his bollocks freezing off.

"Bob, will you _fuckin'_ let me in!"

Mrs. Thatcher (no relation) next door shuts her curtains violently when One Two glances down the street to assess if he'd making a fool of himself in front of anyone. Nosy old cow is probably just got the thrill of her life. One Two resists the urge to pound on the door with his forehead this time.

He leans down, showing his barely covered arse to the world, arms over his naked chest like some bird trying to make her tits look bigger.

Lips to the letter slot, he attempts not to yell again. He'd rather not have the rest of his neighbours staring as his balls crawl inside his body for warmth.

"Bob, please, will you just open the fucking door, I'm freezing my arse off out here," One Two hisses.

The letter slot swings up and in, Bob peers out, only his eyes visible. One Two attempts looking as sad and sorry as he can manage while he's freezing and pissed off. Bob's eyes disappear and then all One Two can see is his mouth -- and Bob, Bob has the kind of mouth any girl would be proud of. Right now, his lips are red and a little used-looking, wet at the edges.

One Two feels his face heat up as embarrassment jogs headlong into a vaguely bollock-warming pride.

"I'll think about it." Bob's says.

The letter slot swings shut with a squeak.

* * *

The thing about Bob is people who don't know him so well as One Two does (as One Two does _now_ ) have a tendency to think he's quiet and sweet (that's the girls, usually), or just your regular muscle brained thug (occasionally accurate, One Two admits).

The thing most people don't know is that Bob can be a manipulative cunt when he wants to be.

A talent for magnificent manipulative cuntery is on Bob's Wild Bunch CV, right after 'good with a vehicle' and 'handy with a blunt instrument'.

One Two knows this, but he's a forgetful fucker sometimes.

One Two's sitting in the Speeler, shuffling a deck of cards. Mumbles has decided to play fifty-two pick-up with him after losing three too many hands at poker.

Bob walks over, glancing at One Two but staring mostly at the floor. By the time Bob's hopped up on the table, legs dangling right at One Two's elbow, One Two's paying more attention to Bob's thighs (purely because they're in his space) than exactly what the fuck Bob wants and why he's looking like he's about to confess he stole the cookies from the cookie jar.

Bob stays perched on the table like a canary that's lost its voice. One Two's elbow brushes Bob's thigh as he wraps a rubber band over the reassembled deck of cards. Bob kicks his feet under the table, and One Two watches the play of muscle through his trousers until he can't stand it.

"What d'y'want, Bob?" It comes out snappier than he'd intended.

Bob stops swinging his legs.

When One Two looks up, Bob's transferred his fidgeting to flipping his phone open and shut, and he's frowning sadly.

One Two takes a deep breath.

"What, Bob?" he repeats, quieter.

"Nah, nothing, One Two."

"What?"

The other thing about Bob is, everyone thinks he's easy to get along with. One Two's never met anyone so fucking infuriating in his life.

"It's just that," Bob starts and stops abruptly.

"For fuck's sake, can't be worse than askin' me the dance, can it?" One Two says.

One Two watches Bob's lips as Bob laughs, feeling obscurely guilty and increasingly frustrated.

"Nevermind. Mumbles bet me you'd say no."

"Say no to _what_ , Bob?"

"Doesn't matter."

One Two thinks of calming things. Running. Headphones. Mumbles' face as One Two won the last game.

"For fuck's sake, _yes_ then. Just spit it out."

"You sure?" Bob doesn't glances at him side on.

One Two looks up at him.

"Did I not just say, for fuck's sake, yes?"

"It's a salsa class. Thanks, One Two." Bob hops off the table and bounces on his toes like a boxer dancing his victory. "I'll come round your place and pick you up at seven."

With a feeling like falling into a great big hole someone's already told you to look out for, One Two finds himself remembering that thing about Bob: manipulative cunt.

"Bob, I'm no' sure --"

"You can have half the hundred Mumbles bet me you wouldn't come."

"Fuckin' hell, Bob --"

Bob stops shadowboxing and meets One Two's eyes. There's a beat in which One Two knows he's lost this round, and Bob licks his lips. One Two thinks he ought to stop looking at Bob's lips, now curled in a small plump smile. Can't remember, why, exactly, for a few seconds.

"D'I need to wear anything fancy?"

"Nah, you're fancy enough yourself."

"Fuck off," One Two says, glancing around. No one's paying them any attention, Mumbles is over by the make-shift bar. He smiles. "We'd be fuckin' Mumbles out of a hundred quid, then?"

"Yep."

That's something.

* * *

He's not half bad at this Salsa malarkey. One Two always knew he wasn't a bad a dancer -- he'd boxed for a few years when he was younger and stupider, and it translates. You don't get saddled with a name like One Two unless you've got some coordination.

(He doesn't notice the class is all men until it's way too late to leave without looking like a twat, and dislodging Bob's hand from his shoulder).

* * *

Bob doesn't make a move (not even the wandering hands he'd tried last time they'd danced). One Two refuses to name the feeling that comes with thinking about this as disappointment.

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel and doesn't mention it. He doesn't break the silence in the car, even when Bob plants his feet up on the dashboard.

It takes him two blocks to crack.

"Y'didn't make any moves," One Two feels his face heat as he speaks, and wishes feverishly he could have kept his mouth shut.

"No," Bob says and that's it.

It should be a relief when they spend the next two blocks in silence. It isn't.

Maybe, maybe One Two can admit he's curious -- maybe. He'd not a fucking homophobe, and Bob is -- Bob is Bob. He's one of his best mates. He's a shit dancer, but he feels solid and warm under One Two hands. He's got lips like no girl One Two's ever gone out with.

One Two pulls up outside his own place, scrapes the tires on the gutter and winces.

"This is why I'm the driver," Bob looks over and smiles. "What, you're gonna make me walk the rest?"

"You want to come up and have a drink?" One Two says.

Bob's smile dies, and One Two flashes back embarrassingly to jumping out of the car and calling Bob a poof.

"No."

"No? Bob, I'm sorry I went off on you when you first --" he'd fucked up, but it'd been a shock is all. He'd apologized.

"No, fuck. It's just I can't do that. I can't come up for a drink."

"Why the fuck not, then?"

"Because it's not a _drink_ I want."

"I'm not a complete fucking idiot here, I know what I said. I meant what I said."

"You didn't say it, though. You can't say it."

One Two opens and closes his mouth.

Bob shakes his head.

"I don't want to come up for a drink. I want to suck your cock." Bob says it fiercely with his fuck-you face on, the look he gets when he's got to look scary for a job.

One Two still can't say it, Bob's right about that, but One Two has always been of the opinion that actions speak louder than words.

He leans over the gearstick and puts a hand on Bob's neck, jerks him closer and kisses the angry curve of his lips. He feels the rough shock of three day stubble against the palm of his hand before he feels it against his lips.

It's not like kissing a girl. Bob's lips are as soft as they'd looked (admittedly: as he'd imagined they'd be) but apart from that, it's rougher, faster, and One Two decidedly isn't leading this dance. Bob doesn't fuck about: One Two pushes and he pushes back, One Two shoves back with tongue and teeth, and Bob meets him halfway.

It's kiss like a landslide, once it starts, it gains momentum at speed.

One Two scrambles clumsy-fingered to undo his seatbelt, and it's the click of the clasp opening that brings him to a skidding halt.

They're both breathing heavy and Bob's got a grip on the front of One Two's shirt, practically dangling from it, pulling One Two closer. His other hand is pressing One Two's own harder into the side of Bob's neck. One Two's thumb is digging into Bob's jaw. He's been rubbing across the roughness of Bob's stubble and he finds the pad of his thumb tingles. Bob's eyes are closed, but they blink open as One Two watches, dark, pupils eclipsing their colour.

With the pause comes the panic.

"Fuck. Fuck," One Two starts and doesn't know what to say. He pulls his hand back like it's burnt, but Bob's the one that makes a noise like it hurts.

"Don't. I want to -- I want to suck you off." Bob says and grabs One Two's hand to press it hard against his jawline again, and Bob looks at him as he says it, looks until One Two has to look away. He watches Bob lick his spit wet lips, watches his mouth as he speaks again: "Let me fucking suck you."

One Two feels panic ebb away on the tide of his blood, all of which is rushing rapidly south.

* * *

After they slam the front door behind them, clothes are shed faster than the remaining shreds of One Two's heterosexuality.

It's hard and fast; they knock into two walls like they're both pissed. One Two's dizzy with it when they hit they bed -- he falls heavy, the backs of his knees buckling against the mattress, legs half over the edge.

Bob lands on top and One Two's freefalling for a minute, though his back's already hit the mattress. They're pressed together down the full length of their bodies, the pay-off of the promise dancing made. Nothing's between them but underwear; Bob's cock is pressed into One Two's hip and he's hard, pushing hot and insistent between them.

It's kind of flattering, One Two thinks, Bob's got it that bad for him and he hasn't even touched his cock yet. Bob groans and shoves against him and One Two's cock's more than half-interested in the warm body pressed against him, too.

Bob slides off the bed to his knees. The thud of it is audible enough One Two almost winces. He sits up at the end of the bed, feet planted on the floor, and Bob's there looking up at him, fitted between his legs, sweating and smiling and red lipped.

Bob's smile is the dirtiest thing he's seen. Bob curls his fingers under the waistband of One Two's underwear and pressed his mouth to the outline of One Two's cock through the cotton.

One Two hips hitch up.

"Not --" One Two starts, pauses to recover his ability to communicate verbally, "-- not as bad as I thought."

Bob headbutts One Two's thigh lightly, presses his sweaty forehead there. When he looks up the corners of his eyes are crinkled with amusement, and One Two feels vaguely like he's being laughed at.

"Thaaanks," Bob says sarcastically.

"I didn't fuckin' mean it like that, I meant the -- the dancing," One Two knows that's some questionable rubbish he's spouting, but he's been known to say some stupid things in the face of potential blowjobs.

"Yeah, well, tell that to Cookie." Bob says. One Two jumps when Bob's fingers curl and scratch through his pubic hair.

One Two's first thought is he doesn't want to think about Cookie's ugly mug right now. His second is:

"Wait, why the fuck would I be tellin' Cookie that?"

"Cookie's the one who gave me the number for the dance class."

"Wait. Wait. _Who the fuck else knows_?" One Two snaps and pushes Bob's hand out of his pants. The elastic snaps hard against his skin, but he's too busy thinking _what the fuck_ to feel it.

Bob's on his feet and looking pissed off, and by the time One Two realises where they've argued their way to, he's looking staring at the wrong side of his own front door. Sans trousers.

* * *

Bob opens the door.

"It's just Cookie, Mumbles and Fred, that's everyone that knows we took the class?" One Two asks, calm and freezing cold.

"Yes. That's everyone who knows we _took the class_ ," Bob emphasises sarcastically, but he doesn't look like he's going to punch One Two anymore.

One Two takes a deep breath.

"Okay."

"Coming back to bed?"

"It's my fuckin' bed."

"So why're you standing out there in your pants?"

One Two would argue further, only Bob drops to his knees as soon as One Two steps into the hallway.

* * *

At the Speeler, there's poker on the table and ponies on the TV. One Two's still riding the good mood that comes after a spectacular fuck, Bob's been smiling but hasn't even tried to bring it up, and Cookie's just left without mentioning the word salsa. One Two is feeling fairly fucking cheerful.

"Y'know Johnny Quid's out of rehab and taken Lenny's business," Fred finishes with a thumbs down and a whistle through his front teeth.

Bob sings Amy Winehouse under his breath.

"Don't fuckin' sing that," One Two says, and bats the back of Bob's head and misses as Bob dodges. He wonders how he'd missed Bob being a flaming poof, and nearly jumps when fingers dig into his thigh under the table and he misses half of what Mumbles is saying.

"-- Fuckin' insane, Johnny."

"Don't say it," One Two says, when he's (subtly) reached under the table and adjusted Bob's hand so it's a little further away from his crotch.

"Just stating facts," Mumbles says and lays his cards down in disgust. "I'm out."

"It's a fact, sure, that's why there's no need to say it," One Two says. He glares briefly at Bob who's smiling serenely in Mumble's direction.

He's kept his hand low enough One Two can think (of things other that the faint bruise on the back of Bob's neck, how his thighs still feel like they do after a good hard run, except that had been more a good hard --).

"Getting paranoid in your old age, One Two?" Bob asks, digging the tips of his fingers into muscle under the table.

"What? Fuck. Getting old because I'm paranoid. You don't want this shit getting back to him," One Two says and feels deserving of a reward for kicking his brain up a gear so quickly.

"Johnny Quid ever runs out of fingers to stick in pies, he'd whip his fucking cock out and use that," Fred supplies, hauling in the little pot of cash in the middle of the table with his forearm. One Two wonders when the fuck that round ended and can't recall one card from his hand.

"Thank you, that's what I'm saying," One Two says to Fred.

"Yeah, he's not slow, even if he's cracked as the pipe he fell off," Mumbles supplies.

"Yet you're still talking, Mumbles." One Two says.

Mumbles gives One Two one of his most potent _you're-a-twat_ looks, and One Two holds up his hands in mock surrender.

"I heard Archy isn't fond of people talking about Johnny being cracked either," Bob says and One Two feels a weird warmth at being backed up. "Lot of people who don't like Johnny have recently caught cold."

"'Cuz you talk to Archy regular, Bob?" Mumbles snorts.

Bob shrugs, smiling down at his cards.

One Two's phone goes off and he grabs it out of his pocket, dislodging Bob's hand. He reads the screen and the holds it out to the rest of the table: little black letters spell out "Archy".

"Speak of the fuckin' devil," One Two says and taps the phone on top of Mumbles's head as he stands up from the table. "What'd I say?"

"Fuck off and answer it then," Mumbles says, not giving One Two the satisfaction of flinching or attempting to dodge.

"Hello, Archy," he answers.

"One Two. Let me up, then," Archy says in his ear, sounding as much of a condescending fucker as usual.

"You outside?"

"Shivering on your doorstep like a lost kitten. Press the buzzer, if you'd be so kind."

* * *

Archy (trailed by his littlest gorilla) walks in like he always does: as if he owns the place, used to be quite fond of it, but was regretfully thinking of having it knocked down.

Everyone quiets.

One Two doesn't like Archy. He's got fair cause: the first time they'd met personally, Archy had been blowing smoke in his face and describing the process of amputating a finger. One Two had been handcuffed and sweating.

They kept civil, though. With Archy you had to remember not to take it too personally, Archy did as he was bid by whoever was holding the leash. One Two found it helpful to remember that, and treated Archy accordingly, sort of the way he would a pissed off dog. You can taunt from afar, but you don't want to get to close.

"What can we do you for, Archy?" One Two asks, leaning against the pool table and nodding hello.

Johnny, it turns out, has a job for them.

Archy invites them to come meet Mr. Quid, as if they hadn't before. Like One Two hadn't saved his junkie bones from one of Lenny's men with a well applied plank. This was business, though, and it's more worth their while to humour him than not.

"Johnny got you running invites around?" One Two says. He doesn't attempt to keep the amused smile off his face.

Archy smiles back and One Two is reminded acutely of looking up at him, sweating.

Archy strolls around the table and taps Bob on the shoulder -- One Two feels his face flush, but it's not as if Archy knows anything. He's just being a prick because that's what he does.

Bob looks up from his cards, and Archy looks down.

"Johnny just wants to be sure you'll all come round for a drink."

"We will," One Two agrees, too quick. "Anyway, we got a game to get back to."

"Since I'm done, I'll leave you to it. Oh, and One Two? Heard about them Salsa lessons. Good stuff."

The door swings shut behind Archy and his colleague, and most of the Speeler picks back up to its usual speed.

"Bob." One Two says, quietly. Bob looks up at him, attempting innocence. "I'd like a word. Out the back."

Fred switches the volume on the TV back up, it nearly drowns out his chuckle and Mumbles' wolf-whistle.


End file.
